


Paper Shrapnel - I Miss You. I Love You. Come Home Soon.

by Pigzxo



Series: Paper Shrapnel [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4633365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigzxo/pseuds/Pigzxo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots of what happened between Chapter 37 & the Epilogue</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ian

_Gunfire lit up the darkness. The rustle of leaves was heavy in the air, bringing with it the promise of a rain that was more natural than that of the bullets. A man was shouting orders, orders that made no sense in the pitch black of the night. Someone fell. Someone screamed. The gunfire responded in kind._

_Heavy breathing surrounded him, loud enough to give them all away. Mickey’s face came into sight, sweat-soaked, streaked with dirt, blue eyes wide with horror. He held his gun close to his chest, like he was protecting it instead of the other way around. He was whispering something. Something indecipherable._

_Then a shot rang out across the forest, louder than all the rest. Mickey shuddered and looked down. A spot of blood showed through the front of his uniform, wavering there for an unrealistically long moment before spreading across the fabric. Mickey’s face paled and he fell forward into the mud._

_Suddenly, his voice could be heard._

_“Ian. Ian. Ian…”_

“MICKEY!” Ian woke, screaming. He shot up in bed, his heart pounding, the night making it impossible for him to see. He tried hard to bring his breath back under control. He tried hard to blink, but the darkness made it seem like his eyes were already closed. Shaking, he lay back down. “Just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.”

           He repeated the mantra for several minutes before giving up on it. He stood and walked over to his desk, rummaging through one of the drawers. All of Mickey’s letters were piled neatly in the corner, by date, but there was only one he wanted to read. Only one letter where Mickey, tired and scared, had said what he had really wanted to say. What Ian hoped he had really wanted to say.

           Ian slipped the letter from the pile and waited for his eyes to adjust to the light. Of course, he didn’t really need to.  He had the letter memorized from start to finish. It was crumpled from multiple foldings, stained yellow from Ian’s sweat, and the ink had faded so it was nearly unreadable. But at the moment, Ian needed not just the words, but the words in Mickey’s chicken scratch writing that was damned near impossible to read.

_Ian,_

_Ten hours we walked through the damned jungle today. Soaking wet. Never stopped raining. We were fired on eleven times. And Gus isn’t even sure we’re safe here for the night. He won’t let us light the fires, but even if he did, there’s not enough dry wood for it._

_If I die here, if I fucking die in this fucking jungle, I need you to know that I love you. That you are the best part of my life, my best memory, and I wish I had known you sooner. I wish I had longer with you. If I fucking die, know that it was never, ever because I put myself in harm’s way. Because I only have on goal out here. And it’s to come home to you._

_So be there, okay? Wait for me. Because I’m coming back to you, I swear to god. If this goddamned jungle ever ends, if this war ever ends, if I ever come home, it’s going to be for you. And I can’t make it out here if you don’t make it back there._

_I worry about you._

_I miss you. I love you._

_-Mick_

           Ian’s breathing slowed and he closed his eyes. His heart beat had slowed but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again. So he folded up the letter, stuffed it in his pocket, and headed out to walk around the camp.

           He listened as the soldiers slept, their breathing like a gentle lullaby in the calm night. The smell of rain was in the air, incoming. No one stirred. Not a soul was awake. The new soldiers were better than the old ones. Sticklers for the rules. Ian wasn’t sure if he liked that. Made it hard to push the whole “collective responsibility” thing.

           He made his way back to the clearing and touched a hand to the flagpole. The same flagpole Mickey had climbed more than six months ago. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was still warm from Mickey’s touch, even though it was ice cold against the heat of the summer night.

           Looking towards the horizon, Ian saw the storm coming in. Black clouds moved across the sky like an opposing army and he knew the downpour would be biblical. It would also be over by morning, leaving little more than a soggy field and some less-than-fully-rested soldiers who had been woken by the thunder.

           On an impulse, Ian ran into the mess hall and found the wake-up horn. He blasted it sharply and several times before coming back to the clearing. The camp stirred, the soldiers moving languidly and rubbing their eyes. They stumbled into the clearing, forming straight lines, and standing at ease.

           Almost all drafters.

           Almost all more receptive to orders than anyone else Ian had ever trained.

           “ATTEN-SHUN!”

           They all snapped into position.

           “Who can tell me,” Ian asked, “what’s behind them?”

           The soldiers glanced at each other, expecting a trick question. A few whispered answers reached Ian’s ears.  _The camp. Tents. Their stuff. Shit. Did he take our stuff again?_  Ian waited patiently until one soldier, a die-hard named Davidson, raised his hand.

           “Yes?” Ian asked.

           “A storm, sir.”

           Ian smiled. “A storm. Yes. Do you have any idea how many storms you’re going to have to survive in ‘Nam?” No one responded. “Lots. Ones worse than this. So we’re going to start up the morning a little early so you can experience the kind of downpour that is going to soak you through every single day until the end of your service. Any objections?”

           As expected, there were none.

           “Start running.”

           The men took off. They made it two laps before the rain started, sprinkling down with less force than a motel shower. Then lightning cracked across the sky and the thunder rumbled in challenge to the laughing soldiers. And, just as Ian predicted, the sky opened up into a biblical downpour that had the men dragging their feet through the mud as their soaked shirts tried to drag them down so they could become one with the ground.

           Ian watched them disinterestedly, thinking about Mickey in the same rain. Wondering if this storm had crossed the ocean, if Mickey had already experienced it. He itched for a cigarette, but knew that in the rain and without Mickey’s taste on it, it would be useless. He had all but stopped smoking since Mickey left.

           The men finished their laps and dropped into their push-ups. The mud splattered around their bodies as they dropped, covering their fingers and darkening their skin. “IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?” Ian shouted over the downpour. Several of the men had fallen in their attempts. “THIS IS NOTHING. THIS IS SPITTING IN VIETNAM.”

           He wasn’t sure how many of them believed him, but none of them complained. All of them kept going. He spotted one soldier half-assing it, and walked over to him. Nash. He placed his foot on the man’s back and he collapsed into the ground, his face smashing into the mud.

           “PUSH-UPS!”

           Nash struggled back to push-up position and started again, struggling with Ian’s added weight and the slippery ground. Ian backed off when he finished, but stayed staring at him when he switched to sit-ups. The group waited for Nash to finish, nearly fifteen minutes after everyone else, and then stood, ready to go to the mess hall.

           “Breakfast isn’t ready yet,” Ian snapped. “We’re running a gun drill.”

           Two soldiers immediately pulled away to get the equipment from the shed. Three more followed them. Ian had them set up the targets unevenly and instructed them to created cover for themselves and the targets. He watched as the men loaded their guns with seriousness, trying to keep the weapons out of the worst of the rain.

           Ian loaded his own gun and stood facing his men. “Hit the targets,” he said. “Simple enough?”

           They nodded.

           It wasn’t simple. The cover was good, maybe too good, and the rain threw off their sights. The men were miserable and tired and kept glancing over at Ian as if asking when they could go back to sleep or take a shower. He stared back at them blankly. If Mickey was doing this, they could do it too.

           The sun didn’t rise. It stayed hidden behind the clouds, causing time to stop altogether, until the mail trunk came trundling into camp. Ian barely noticed it until the soldier driving it cleared his throat and handed him a stack of letters. He waited for the second stack to be removed from the bag. It wasn’t.

           “No letters for me?” Ian asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

           “Oh,” the driver said. He turned back to the bag and started rummaging through it. Ian waited, tapping him foot in the mushy grass. The soldier held out a single envelope, addressed by Fiona. “Here you go, sir.”

           Ian took it, nodded, and sent the truck on its way. He tried to stop the chill spreading across his body, stopping his blood in his veins, and constricting his lungs. There was any number of reasons that Mickey wouldn’t have written. He was under heavy fire.  _He’s dead._  It’s raining too hard to keep the paper dry. _He’s dead._ They’re in constant motion.  _He’s dead._  He…

            _He’s dead._

_He’s dead._

_He’s dead._

_Mickey’s dead._

Ian’s mouth opened and he swallowed air. He tried to shake off the thought but it followed him like a ghost. He stuffed the letters from his family in his pocket and then ducked into the mess hall to put down the soldiers’ letters.

           He stood there for a long time, gripping the wooden table, trying to breathe normally. The chef came in to start breakfast and offered no more than a passing greeting, which Ian ignored. He collected himself. He made the words “Mickey’s dead” into background noise and headed back outside.

           To see that all hell had broken loose. The targets were, to be fair, too hard to hit. But that didn’t mean that his soldiers should have taken the place of the targets and been shooting at each other with real guns.

           “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” Ian shouted.

           The scene before him froze. All the soldiers looked at him with sheer terror in their eyes and, for once, Ian wasn’t offended by it. They should be scared of him. All of them should be absolutely fucking terrified of what he was going to do to them.

            _Mickey’s dead. Mickey’s dead. Mickey’s dead._

“Who the hell decided this was a good idea?” he asked when he got close enough to be heard. No one said anything. “You will tell me right now or every last one of you will be running laps until you puke up your lungs.”

           Nothing.

           “You think this is a fucking joke? These are real guns. They hold-” Ian shot his gun into the ground. The platoon jumped. “Real, goddamn bullets. And if you shoot each other with them, you will die.”

           “Come on,” a voice said. The same lilting, sarcastic tone as Mickey. _MickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdead._ “We stood where the targets are. And no one can hit the fucking targets.”

           “Who said that.”

           The soldiers split before his glare to reveal Nash standing near the back, soaked to the bone, and shivering. He twirled his gun on one finger with the safety off. “We were just having some fun. We’re soaking and miserable and-”

           “And you’re going to be soaking and fucking miserable in Vietnam,” Ian snapped, walking towards him. “Are you telling me, when you’re soaking and miserable halfway across the world, with enemy soldiers hiding in the jungle, to ‘have some fun’ you’re going to shoot at  _each other_?”

           Nash shrugged. “We’ll probably shoot at them.”

           Ian shot another bullet into the ground. Nash’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Do you think,” Ian said, so softly the pounding rain nearly drowned out his voice, “this is a fucking joke?”

           “No, sir.”

           Ian shot the ground again. Closer to Nash. He jumped. “Is this a joke, soldier, or are you going to fucking war?”

           “I’m going to war, sir.”

           Another shot. Nash swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the edge of his sharp chin. With the rain, it was hard to tell whether there were tears in his eyes or if the rain was just reflected in their dark blue depths. Ian stepped closer to him and he tried to step back. Ian grabbed him by the shirt and kept less than an inch of space between them, his hot breath ruffling Nash’s jacket.

         “You’re a fucking sorry excuse for a soldier,” Ian whispered. _MickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdeadMickeysdead._ Louder now. Louder than the rain. Louder than the tears of the soldier in front of him. 

           “And you don’t deserve to be one.”

           Ian let off his last shot and Nash screamed. Blood poured into the already soaked grass and Nash fell, clutching his foot and moaning. Every single soldier stepped back as Ian stared down at the man in the grass. He could feel the horror of the rest of his platoon, the way they looked at him like he was a monster, and he felt strangely detached from all of it. Detached from the blood coming from Nash’s foot.  _The blood coming from Mickey’s chest._

           Swallowing, Ian stepped back. He flicked the safety back on and headed into the mess hall to call for a doctor. Finally, something managed to break through the endless repeat of his worst fear. A different worst fear.

            _I’m going to be discharged._


	2. Mickey

Mickey cursed incessantly as the gunfire rained down on him. He was crouched behind a large tree that split in three directions. Denny was to his left, propping his gun between two of the trees trunks, his face splattered with blood and his green eyes hard. Wells was to his right, his gun held tight against his chest. The rain had finally wiped the goofy smile off of his face.

           Gus and Miller were five feet ahead of them, kneeled in a patch of heavy bushes. They were barely visible through the rain. The darkness of the clouds had taken over the sun and no one in the platoon was sure exactly what time it was. Or if it was even still day.

           They had been under heavy fire for eight days. Supposedly there was a safe zone, an area held by the American troops, not far from where they stood. However, Mickey had been hearing Gus say that for four days, so he wasn’t exactly holding out faith.

           The gunfire faded slightly and Gus gave the signal to move. The three men moved as one, in a straight line, across to the place where their lieutenant had been seconds earlier. They shot as they went, Mickey counting the bullets, praying they had enough to last until they could get out from under the Vietcong.

           For a brief moment, while the sounds of war dimmed, Mickey thought of Ian. Ian, who he hadn’t been able to send a letter to in over a week. Ian, who was training new recruits to go off and die in this war. Ian, who was waiting for him to come home. Mickey ducked a barrage of bullets. Ian, who might have to see him coming off a plane in a box.

           Mickey shook off the thoughts, staring at Gus. The lieutenant’s signals were getting harder to read. The rain was pounding down, drowning out all lines of sight. They thought that the enemy was in front of them, but it was impossible to tell. Sometimes they came from behind. Sometimes from the side. Sometimes their guns were only a handful of people and the bulk of the army was elsewhere, waiting until they were lured into position.

           Swallowing hard, Mickey nodded and his small group moved forward. For once, no gunshots sounded in reply to theirs. Gus looked back at them, nodded, and said, “We make it through this patch of the jungle and we’re home free.”

           Mickey scoffed.

           “I promise.”

           Mickey didn’t reply. He looked out at the trees, the rain, and the small blasts of light coming from the enemy’s guns. Gus moved the platoon forward slowly, returning fire, and gained ground. Mickey counted three men down. Making their total losses in the last six months thirteen. Statistically, not bad.

           “Go now,” Gus said. His soldiers looked at him. He didn’t take his eyes off of the guns before him. “Go past them on the right, everyone cover for whose running, and you’ll make it to the camp. You’ll be safe there. Go.”

           Mickey stayed put. Denny with him. Wells ran. They shot into the jungle to cover him and he disappeared among the trees. Others went. Miller. Johnson. Mickey muttered prayers to a god he didn’t believe in to let them be safe. Every single one of them.

           “Go, Mick.”

           Mickey looked at Denny, standing behind him, nodding coldly. And despite the fact that the boy beside him was now a man, no longer a scared kid waiting for letters from him mom, Mickey couldn’t leave him there.

           “Together,” he replied.

           Denny nodded.

           The two of them glanced at the lieutenant, who nodded. They waited for a lull in the gunfire and then ran. Gus shot from behind them and others shot from the jungle in front of them, covering their escape.

           Bullets still came at them from the trees. Not many, but enough that they had to be careful. Mickey had a sick flashback to the pellet guns, Denny running for cover, and him taking all the bullets he could. If he did that here, he would be run through like Swiss cheese. He swallowed and picked up the pace, Denny hot on his heels.

           They were halfway across the clearing when Mickey saw a bullet coming. Time seemed to slow for him as the metal glinted in the lightning flashing across the sky. He tried to stop his step. Tried to slow his pace. All useless. It would hit him. He knew it would hit him.

            _Ian, please. Ian._

His last thought.

           Or at least, his last thought until time snapped back into reality and Denny leaped in front of him. The bullet caught him in the chest, blood blooming immediately across his coat as he fell to the ground.

           “Denny!” Mickey snapped, more of an order than a scream. He dropped to his knees beside him, pressing his hands against the wound, the blood warm against his soaked hands. “Denny, I swear to god.”

           Denny smiled. “Just… returning the favour,” he whispered.

           “DENNY!”

           Mickey shook him, unaware that the moisture on his face was tears now and not rain. A hand grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him up. He struggled, wanting to take Denny with him, but the boy’s eyes were already glassy as he stared up into the night sky.

           “Run, Milkovich,” Gus snapped.

           And Mickey, despite his friend lying dead in the grass, turned and ran. Because Ian had made a military man out of him. And an order was an order.

***

           A safe zone was not safe from the rain. Gunfire, yes, but not the unstoppable Vietnam storms. Mickey sat on a cot in a tent with nine other men from his platoon. All of them were silent, letting the wind do the screaming, as their pens scratched across paper. Some of them had eight sheets of paper done already, in either several letters or one. Others were on their first. Mickey was the only one who had only managed one word.

            _Ian._

There was nothing else to say after that. How could he tell Ian that Denny was dead? How could he tell him that he’d left him in the jungle to be washed away by the rain? Did it matter that Gus said when it was safe, they’d go back for him? Would he be there still, still Denny, if they did? How could he tell Ian he’d failed one of the only people in the world who had ever trusted him? How could he tell Ian that anyone in his platoon was dead?

           Mickey had done a tremendous job of not talking about the deaths up until that point. He had hidden them from Ian, despite knowing that Ian would get all the reports. But now, sitting there, he couldn’t not tell Ian Denny had died right in front of him. That Denny had died for him. But there were no words for it.

            _God I love you._ Mickey wrote.  _I miss you. Don’t you dare fucking die on me._

He signed the letter, folded it, and stuffed it in an envelope. He blinked the rest of the tears from his eyes, wiped at his nose, and got up from the cot. He stuffed the letter into his back pocket and headed out into the rain to find the mail tent.

           Slipping inside, he found one man sitting at a desk, organizing letters into separate piles depending on where they needed to be sent. Mickey pulled the letter from his back pocket, cleared his throat, and waited for the man to look up at him. The man didn’t. He simply held out his hand.

           Mickey handed him the letter and turned to go.

           “Kid, you can’t send this.”

           Mickey turned back. “What?”

           Cloudy blue eyes looked back at him, a frown on the man’s face, as he held the letter back out across the small desk. “You can’t send this. You need the address.”

           “Whaddya mean I need the address?” Mickey asked. He snatched the letter back. “This is going to my lieutenant. It doesn’t need his fucking address.”

           “Your lieutenant was discharged. You’re going to need his address.”

           Mickey stared at the man for a long moment, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Discharged?” he echoed. It took him a long moment to find control of his voice. The large green tent felt like it was constricting around him. “What the fuck do you mean he was discharged? Is he all right?”

           “Fine,” the man said. “The guy he shot on the other hand…”

           Mickey cursed. “Do you have his address?”

           The man shook his head.

           “You don’t understand,” Mickey said. “I know you’ve got his address. You must have the address for every soldier. And I don’t got it. But I haven’t been able to write to him for more than a week and if he doesn’t get this letter…” Mickey trailed off as his voice started to shake. He gripped the letter harder, crumpling its corners. “If he doesn’t get this letter, I don’t know if he’s gonna be all right.”

           “I don’t have his address.”

           “Please.”

           The man looked down at the letters in front of him for a moment and then back up at Mickey. The pity in his eyes had intensified. “I know you owe a lot to your old Sergeant. And especially after a death… it can be hard to not have his support. But I suggest you lean on your lieutenant now, soldier.”

           Mickey shook his head, the tears hard at the bridge of his nose. “You don’t get it. I need… I need to get this letter to Ian. Please.”

           “Your lieutenant can help you.”

           Mickey felt frozen to the spot. He stared at the man, trying hard not to cry, his entire body shaking as he thought of the words in the letter. It was sixteen fucking words. Just sixteen. But he couldn’t explain how important they were. How much Ian needed to read them. How Ian would get them and he would know that Denny had died that day and that Mickey needed him just as much, if not more, than Ian needed him.

           “Please,” Mickey whispered.

           The man shook his head.

           “Do you know the fucking address or not?” Wells said. He was half in the tent and he looked livid. The man looked up at him, his pity turning to confusion. He opened his mouth to reply, but Wells cut him off. “Just yes or no. And if it’s yes, give the man the fucking address.”

           “I’m not allowed to release personal information.”

           Wells stalked up to the desk, threw his own letter down, and leaned across the desk. “I’m only going to ask you one more time,” he whispered. “And if the answer isn’t a firm no, that you don’t know the address, that you can’t possibly get it, then me and him? We’re not gonna be very happy.” The man made no response and Wells pointed to the scar under his eye. “See this? He gave me that. The scar he’s got on his forehead? That’s from me. How much damage do you think we can do on the same side?”

           The man swallowed hard and then looked back at Mickey. “I’m sorry, son. I don’t have access to that kind of information from here. And I could get the address, but it would take weeks, and-”

           “We’ll be gone by then,” Mickey finished. He nodded. “Thanks anyways.”

           He headed for the door and Wells headed after him. Outside the tent, Mickey shot him a wary look and said, “Thanks for that.”

           Wells shrugged. “I got my girl to write to. You should get to write to him.” And then Wells was gone.

           Mickey walked back to the tent, the crumpled letter still in his hand. He sat down on the cot, his breathing barely back to normal, and stared at the letter. Then he slipped it under his pillow, the first of what would be many.


End file.
